Chlorine & Papara Dreams

The pool party was supposed to be easy. Just show up, look chill, maybe actually talk to Maya this time instead of just liking her posts from behind my phone screen. But standing here in board shorts that feel two sizes too big, clutching a cup of lukewarm soda while everyone else cannonballed into the crystal-blue water, I felt like I'd walked onto the wrong set.

Maya emerged from the pool, water dripping from her hair like she was in some music video. She waved at me, and I practically spilled my drink trying to wave back. Smooth.

"Hey! You made it!" She paddled over to the edge. "Everyone's going to Jackson's house after this. His dad has this insane baseball setup in the backyard— batting cage, everything. You should come."

Baseball. Of course. The sport I'd pretended to understand all freshman year just to sit near her at lunch games. The sport I'd definitely lied about playing in my "about me" when we matched on that app. The sport that was about to expose me as the world's most awkward fraud.

"Yeah, sounds," I swallowed, "sounds sick."

"Perfect!" She beamed. "Oh hey, try this fruit salad my mom made. It's got papaya." She scooped up this bright orange chunk from a bowl I'd been strategically avoiding. "It's actually fire, I swear."

Papaya. The fruit my dad had been obsessed with since our trip to Hawaii last summer—cutting it up every Sunday morning like some weird ritual, going on about antioxidants while I just wanted regular cereal. The fruit I'd secretly started liking but would never admit to because since when did I turn into my dad?

I took the bite. And okay, maybe it was the chlorine in the air or Maya watching me with those eyes that made my chest tight, but the papaya actually hit different. Sweet, slightly weird, but in a way that made you want more.

"See?" She grinned. "You've got good taste."

I jumped in the pool. Board shorts and all.

Later, watching everyone awkwardly swing at baseballs in Jackson's backyard, Maya handed me a helmet.

"You ever play?" she asked.

"Not really," I said, and it felt good to finally say it. "But my dad's got this papaya thing if that counts."

She laughed. It was better than any home run.